Mea Culpa
by bananasrokk
Summary: An updated version of "Empty House" in which John isn't quite so forgiving. Summary kind of sucks. Rated for mild language later on. R&R!
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, hello! ****I've been bothered for a while about Watson's reaction to Holmes' sudden reappearance in "Empty House," because frankly, if _my_ BFF pulled crap like that and came back from the dead three years later, I would be kind of disappointed in them, to say the least. So this plot bunny's been nibbling away at me for a while and I thought, what the hell. This is the product. Hope you like it. J**

**Disclaimer: I have nothing to do with anything to do with Sherlock Holmes. Unfortunately.**

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Mea Culpa

Three years is an awfully long period of time, for anything really. Three years is 94, 670, 778 seconds; 1, 577, 846.3 minutes; 26, 297.4383 hours, 156.532371 weeks, 1095 days, 36 months, and no less than 21 dog years. Three years is an awfully long time for anything, but three years is an especially long time to go about one's life thinking one's best friend is dead.

So when one's said supposedly-deceased best friend shows up at one's door three years after supposedly taking a header off a waterfall, looking very much alive and well, one is, of course, entitled to be just a little miffed at that person. It's human nature.

But of course, anyone who would fake his own death for three years without so much as a friendly text reading "_I'm not dead LOL_" and expect the person they left weeping at the edge of a waterfall to welcome them back, no questions asked, with open arms, would have to be entirely clueless when it came to human nature.

And that was just the sort of person Sherlock Holmes was.

So he was, of course, shocked when John's fist connected with his jaw and sent him sprawling to the floor. And he was shocked again when John joined him there about twelve seconds later, having toppled to the ground in a dead faint.

Sherlock couldn't for the life of him figure out what had come over his friend. Surely he hadn't changed that much since he'd left. The John he knew wouldn't hurt a fly, unless said fly was putting someone else in danger, in which case he would do some quite considerable damage to it. So, lost for answers, he rubbed his sore jaw and waited for his friend to wake up.

When he did, it was slowly, and confusedly. After much blinking and confused glances in Sherlock's direction and more blinking, realization slowly dawned.

"Sherlock...?" he asked in a low voice, shaking with supressed emotion.

"Hello, John." Sherlock said brightly, with the hint of a smile.

"But you're... you're alive..." John stammered, getting to his feet.

Sherlock stood too, and brushed himself off. "A very astute observation, John."

John blinked at him, his face suddenly losing all traces of emotion that had been there before. Sherlock noticed but didn't care.

"I suppose you're wondering how I survived the falls," he said, before launching into the story of how he'd nearly fallen to his death with Moriarty, but managed to regain his balance at the last second, climbed up onto a ledge, climbed back down, and skipped town for three years. By the time he finished, John had a most peculiar look on his face. Sherlock sighed. "You've got questions."

John stared at him for a long moment. For once, Sherlock couldn't read his expression. He guessed his friend was so overjoyed to see him alive and well that even he didn't know what to feel. He noticed John's left hand move slightly, and looked down at it, thinking that it was the tremor. But, no. It was simply clenching into a fist so tight that John's knuckles had gone white.

"You think I have questions?" John said in a carefully controlled voice.

"You always have questions, John." Sherlock replied with a smug smile.

"Alright. Here' s a question for you, Mr. Consulting Detective... _what the HELL were you thinking_?" The last part of the sentence came out in a most unexpected snarl.

"I assume you mean at the falls-"

"Of course I mean at the falls, you idiot! You're telling me you sat there all happy and chipper on a bloody ledge the whole time? I called for you! I was looking for you for hours before I could even consider that you'd di-"

John's voice faltered at the memory. Sherlock took the pause in the shouting to try and say something in his defence, but the look that John gave him was enough to do the impossible - to shut up Sherlock Holmes.

He'd never seen John look properly angry before. At any rate, he'd not seen the doctor's anger directed at him. Confusion? Yes. Disappointment? Of course. Exasperation? Obviously. But never anger. Never real, intense fury. The way John was looking at him right now, if he'd been able to, he would have burned two holes through the consulting detective by now.

"Don't. Say. Anything." John said in a dangerous monotone. "Just get the hell out."

Sherlock stared. Now it was _his_ turn to be confused. Why was John acting this way? He didn't understand.

"Really, John, don't you think this is rather infantile-"

"Sherlock. Out. _Now._"

Unwilling to risk another blow (John really did have an impressive right hook; his jaw was still throbbing), and unable to think of a retort, Sherlock shuffled towards the door of John's tiny flat. As he entered the hallway, he turned back, expecting a goodbye, and only nearly getting his finger cut off by the slamming door for his troubles.

As he walked down the sidewalk towards Baker Street, he wondered to himself what had gotten into John. He was behaving quite irrationally.

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**I hope this wasn't too OOC. It was rather therapeutic to write, though, and I would dearly love to see Freeman take a swing at Ben if they ever do an Empty House episode *crosses fingers* Anywhoo, feel free to leave a review, love it or loathe it. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Aloha, dearies. Back again for chapter 2. I should have been doing one of my numerous essays for school, but instead, I wrote this. But hey, if it`s a competition between development in infancy, and the crazy shenanigans of Sherlock and John, there`s really no contest, is there? Anyways, enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Not much has changed since the last chapter, as in I still do not own _Sherlock._ *cries***

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Sherlock's reappearence at 221B Baker Street may very well have ended Mrs Hudson's life had not Mycroft been considerate enough to phone ahead and let her know he was coming. As it was, she merely screamed and sat down heavily on the steps when he walked through the door.

It took her a minute to recover, but after a bit, she retired to the kitchen and returned with a cup of tea and some biscuts ("Just 'cause your back, dear, and just this once. Remember, I'm not your housekeeper!").

As Sherlock sipped his tea and stuck on about six nicotene patches, he decided it was time to start brainstorming the Ron Adair case. He looked around the room, kept exactly the way it had been since before he'd left by Mycroft, at his request. All his things were there... except...

"Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock called, and she, of course came running immediately.

"What is it, dear?"

"Where's my skull?"

"What?"

"My skull! The one that sat right there on the ledge since we moved in!" Sherlock snapped, then stopped abruptly, wondering why he had said "we" instead of "I," which would have been a much more appropriate word choice. It certainly had been a strange day...

"Oh, that old thing. Well, it hasn't been there for years, Sherlock. John must have taken it with him the day he came back from Switzerland."

"He took... my skull? Why?"

"Well, I wondered that myself. I'd thought because he missed you, but now I'm not so sure. I do wish he'd told me about you... still being alive. Where is he anyways? I'd expected you two to be chatting away about murder in here by now!"

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Well... I've been to see him, but he doesn't seem to be quite himself today."

"What d'you mean?"

"Well, I showed up at his flat, and he hit me, then passed out, then slammed the door in my face when he woke up." Sherlock said, trying to sound bored instead of confused about his friend's actions.

"John? Why would he do a thing like tha-" Mrs. Hudson's voice trailed off as she realized the answer to her own question. A disappointed, almost scolding look came into her eyes as she looked at the consulting detective. "Oh, Sherlock. You didn't tell him, did you?"

The answer was written clearly on his face. Mrs. Huson sighed and tutted, shaking her head at him.

"What?" Sherlock snapped, genuinely at a loss as to why people were behaving like this.

"Well, dear, he thought you were dead for three years."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. She was, once again, pointing out the blatantly obvious rather than answering his question.

"Yes, I know that."

"Well... how would you feel if John did the same to you?"

"Irrelevant. I'd have been able to figure out from the footprints and the paper trail that he'd survived; it's not a valid point."

Mrs. Hudson sighed again. "Alright then. What if he actually died? What then? Goodness knows he's come close enough since I met him, a few times. How would you feel if John died on a case with you, and you didn't get to say goodbye?"

Sherlock looked at the floor. If he was honest with himself, in a way he'd never be with anyone else in the world, it was a thought that had often kept him up at night, especially during the past three years. How he would feel if he lost John. It was something he preferred to shut away in the back of his mind with the rest of the dusty emotions and other trivialities.

But still, he'd been there at Reichenbach. He'd heard John calling for him, desperate, as if his life had depended on it. He'd lay on the ledge above the roaring falls, clutching the wet grass, shivering with the cold, and listened as John found his discarded phone with that damned text still unfinished on the screen. And he'd heard him crying, his sobs louder to Sherlock's ears than the falls.

The peculiar, horrible, gut-wrenching feeling he'd had then was similar to the one he was feeling now, at the thought of permanently losing John.

Of course, his departure had been necessary. It was the best way to keep them all safe; Mycroft, and Mrs Hudson, and Sarah, and Harry, and John. Especially John. If he'd known Sherlock was alive, one slip of the tongue could have cost him dearly.

Sherlock tried to explain this to Mrs. Hudson, in lieu of responding to her question. His reasoning in the matter was sound. Still, when he was finished talking, she was eyeing him disapprovingly.

"What?" He snapped again.

"Sherlock... Even if all you've been saying is true, it doesn't change the fact that he went around for three years thinking you were dead. You should have seen the state he was in when he came back, poor thing. Walked straight in here without a word, picked up that skull, and closed the door. I didn't go in but I heard him crying through the door. He must have took the skull with him when he left a few hours later, to go stay with family, I think. He moved out not a week after that. I've been lonely these past few years, dear. Me and Mrs Turner next door would get together for tea sometimes, maybe a girl's night out every once in a while with some of the ladies from bridge. But, I'm sure it'll get more exciting when you're both nice and comfy back here."

She smiled a little. Sherlock looked over at her, just a little grumpily.

"He's still not talking to me."

"And he's got every right not to, young man."

"Well, what do I do?"

"You apologize." Mrs. Hudson said matter-of-factly.

"I _what_?"

"Apologize."

"But I didn't do anyhthing wrong."

The only response that got from the landlady was a raised eyebrow.

"My reasoning was sound; staying here would only have put more people in danger!"

"You know I wasn't talking about you leaving, Sherlock. But you could have dropped him a line any time while you were away, and you didn't."

"Well, he... I couldn't risk..." Sherlock stammered (a rare occurrence for the consulting detective).

"Look," Mrs. Hudson said, standing up. "I don't care what your reasoning was, young man. The only thing to do in this case is to swallow your pride and go apologize to John."

"But-"

"No buts!" She said with an uncommon finality. Then she patted his head in a motherly way and left the room, leaving Sherlock to sit and think.

He sighed, and went to the laptop sitting on the dusty table.

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"You have 9 new e-mails!" Said the fake voice from John's tinny laptop speakers.

He rolled his eyes, already knowing who they'd all be from. One from the hospital, two annoying forwards from Harry, and no less than _six_ from Sherlock. He angrily deleted every single one of them without reading a word on them.

_A few years too late, Sherlock._

Then he found a white envelope with his name on it on his kitchen counter. There was no way it could have gotten there other than being placed there by Sherlock. John rolled his eyes, and added "breaking and entering" to his mental list of Reasons to be Mad at Sherlock.

He crumpled up the envelope without opening it, and threw it out of the window, where it fluttered to the street just in time for a certain tall, dark-haired individual to pick it up. He looked at it, saw that it hadn't been read, and glanced up in irritation at the window it had just come out of.

He had worked all night on the damned thing, and John didn't even bother looking at it? What the hell was wrong with him?

He stayed where he was, holding the unopened letter until John came out on his way to the hospital. Sherlock hurried over to him and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Yes?" He said politely, before he realized who he was talking to. Then the anger was back. He brushed Sherlock's hand away and started walking quickly in the opposite direction.

"John, you're being childish." Sherlock said, following him.

"Go away." John said without looking back.

"It was necessary-"

He only laughed humorlessly at that. "Was it now?"

Sherlock sighed and quickened his step to catch up with the doctor. He decided it was time to try for an emotional appeal; those usually worked with John.

"Come on, you can't stay mad at me forever. I thought we were friends-"

John stopped walking so suddenly that Sherlock almost ran into him.

"Friends?" John said, in a tone that implied he's never heard of such a thing before. "Friends, eh? Well, I'm not entirely sure about your definition of the term, but my dictionary happens to say something about _friends_ being there for each other. Nothing about disappearing off the face of the Earth for a few years and then waltzing back like nothing's happened."

"This is an apology, and you should-"

"Apology? No, Sherlock. _This_ is stalking. I'd threaten to go to the police, but they'd probably not believe that I was having my flat broken into by a dead man."

"They know I'm back." Sherlock said simply in reply. "They've known for nearly a week."

John blinked. "Lestrade... knows." He said softly. "Lestrade's known for a week. I've known for two days. Mycroft's known for three bloody years, and you didn't think once, not once, to just pick up a damn phone and call me, text me, anything at all to just let me know you were okay? Would it have been that much trouble to let one more person in on your little secret? Or did you just not care? Did you just fail to consider the fact that maybe, just maybe, you had let some people down, hurt them by leaving? Did you even give it a thought at all?" He gave another short, humorless laugh. "Of course you didn't. Sherlock Holmes, knows everything about everything except what matters. I just - I can't deal with this, Sherlock. I can't deal with you. I'm done."

When he stopped speaking, there was a beat of silence between the two. When John spoke again, he was quiet. He sounded resigned, tired.

"We were friends. Once. I thought." He looked Sherlock straight in the eye for the first time. "But I guess I was wrong again, wasn't I?"

And without another word, he walked away.

"John!" Sherlock called. "You're being childish!"

But John kept on walking. He hailed a cab and drove off without so much as a backwards glance in Sherlock's direction, just as the detective himself had done to John all those long years ago.

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**I hope Mrs. Hudson wasn`t too matronly. Anyways, I`m almost finished writing the last chapter, so updates should be pretty quick. In the meantime, why not click that pretty green button down there and review****?**


	3. Chapter 3

**Back again. I've got a nasty cold going on, which sucks, but it gives me a bit more time to write, so I guess it comes out about even. Also, I pretty much spent the day in bed drinking tea and watching Sherlock and the 2009 RDJ Holmes movie, so I'm all sleuth-ed up. I know, not a word, but the best my drug addled mind can come up with at the moment.**

**But enough of my whining. Enjoy!**

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Although Sherlock refused to admit defeat, he decided his time was better spent solving a crime than trying to get John to see reason. So, one taxi ride later, he found himself striding into Lestrade's office for the first time in three years.

He allowed himself a smile as Anderson choked on a cup of coffee at the sight of him through the window of the office before turning to Lestrade, who was busy trying to seem nonchalant about the fact that a man they'd all believed to be dead was now sitting opposite him demanding details on the Ron Adair case.

" Night of August 20th. Single shot to the head, soft point bullet, ballistics say from a Smith and Wesson 386 Nightguard. He was in his home office at the time, his sister was out with friends. He was alone in the house and the room was locked from the inside. I have security camera footage, if you're, er , interested."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

Lestrade sighed. "Of course you're interested." He turned his computer screen to face the consulting detective and pulled up a file. The resolution was clear and in colour and the sound was crystal clear, unlike most CCTV cameras.

The man looked to be in his late 20s, with dirty blond hair and tanned skin. He was on his laptop, seemingly concentrating very hard on whatever he was doing. He looked down at some papers to his left, then back to the screen, typing rapidly. Suddenly, without a sound, Adair dropped onto his desk, blood soaking the blond curls. Instantly dead. The footage ended.

Lestrade looked from the screen of his computer back to Sherlock. "Well, what do you make of it?"

Sherlock cleared his throat as if perparing for a speech, and Lestrade rolled his eyes. He'd forgotten how annoyingly patronizing Sherlock could be when it came to this.

"He's 26, a journalism student. Not from here as the tan would indicate, but Australia. Bit of a gambler, but although he's got money in the family, he's careful about it. No debts to pay off. Even so, he's paranoid about something. He keeps glancing at the mirror, the one across the room, that reflects out of the window behind him like he's waiting for something to happen. He most likely knows the killer."

Lestrade nodded, and motioned for him to continue.

"You said the shot came from a Smith and Wesson, but the camera shows that there's no one in the room. Clearly, from the angle of entry, the bullet was shot through the window. The Nightguard is a revolver, close range, so he'd need to be in the room to use it effectively. You couldn't get that accuracy at that range otherwise. So, the killer's using a modified long-range rifle with a silencer, because the shot wasn't heard on the video. Speaking of which, the quality's too good for a normal CCTV camera. Adair paid good money for the camera in that room, which again speaks to mild paranoia.

"So, paranoid young man... but then why does he leave the window open directly behind him? Because there's no AC. The air conditioning in his house is broken, I'm guessing tampered with, and the end of August heat is too much, so he cracks the window and sets up the mirror so he can see behind him."

"How do you know the mirror wasn't there before?" Lestrade interrupted.

"We've established that Adair was paranoid; he had a lock on the door and wouldn't let anyone in, even to clean. The books, the shelves, the desk, everything in the room is covered in a layer of dust. But the mirror, look at the mirror. Spotless, unlike everything else in the room, like it was regularly cleaned. So, obviously taken from elsewhere in the house. Also, the placement. The lower right corner of the mirror overlaps with the door. No one sets up a mirror so that it gets disturbed every time the door is opened. So, we can assume that Adair took it with him, anticipating that he may need to see behind him, and set it up before he opened the window so he could see what was going on outside.

"He checks the mirror every few seconds, up until he's shot. You can see his eyes widen a second before. He's noticed the killer, but doesn't have time to react. But he's recognized him." He stops suddenly, and looks around the office. "Do you have his laptop?"

"Not here, but I can have it brought up from Evidence." He picked up his phone, and a few minutes later a none too pleased Sally Donovan arrived with the laptop in an evidence bag.

"Enjoy, zombie freak." She said, setting it down in front of Sherlock before heading out of the room.

"Nice to see you again too, Sally." he replied as the door shut. He opened the laptop, again starting to think aloud to Lestrade. "A very nice laptop. One of the more expensive Macs. And saved in the videos... here."

Sherlock clicked on an unnamed video file.

It was clearly taken at the same time as the video they'd just watched, as the young man was wearing the same clothes. From this angle, you could see Adair's face close up, the dark bags under his eyes and stubble on his chin. You could see his eyes dart up to look in the mirror every few seconds as well.

"Clever," Sherlock commented, sounding genuinely impressed. "He was using the mirror to check behind him, but he recorded it on his webcam, too. Oh, I love it when they try to help us out..."

"What do you mean?" Lestrade asked.

"Look at it! Look at the angle of the webcam! Right over his shoulder, you can see behind him perfectly. He knew where the CCTV camera was, knew that it wouldn't get a view of his killer, so he recorded it for us! Watch..."

The progress bar on the video was showing that the video would soon end. With two seconds left, Adair's eyes grew wide and he opened his mouth as if to say something. Then he pitched forward, a splatter of blood covered the lens built in to the computer, and the video ended.

"Take it back to right before he dies. Just before he sees the killer." Sherlock said, scooting his chair even closer to the desk. Lestrade complied, and the video replayed. When Adair's eyes widened, Sherlock said "Pause!"

The frame they were staring at was mainly composed of Adair's fearful features. But just behind him, they could see a red brick apartment building and what looked like an office building.

"Look at the buildings behind him, can you see an open window anywhere?"

Seconds later, Lestrade says "I've got it."

Sherlock peered at the picture. Sure enough, a window on the sixteenth floor of the office building was open. A shadowy form could be seen inside, but not perfectly captured by the laptop's camera.

"Enlarge and sharpen that image." Sherlock said, and Lestrade complied. It took a while to load, but when it did, Sherlock drew back from the screen a little.

"What's wrong?" Lestrade asked, concerned at the look on the consulting detective's face, as if he'd seen a ghost.

"I've seen him before." Sherlock said softly.

"You know him?"

"No..."

"Alright then," Lestrade said, after a lengthy silence. "You want to fill me in or what?"

"At the falls." Sherlock said slowly. "After Moriarty fell, I knew that he'd have operatives in the area. I climbed up to a legde for cover, but after... well, after everyone had gone, someone started shooting at me from further up. I didn't get a very long look, but you don't forget a face like that."

"Who is he?"

"Colonel Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's right hand man. No one knows much about him, but he's said to be something of a gambler himself. He most likely met Adair, who was studying investigative journalism judging by the titles of the books we saw in the footage from the laptop, playing cards. With the stakes they both played, they most likely saw a lot of each other, struck up some sort of friendship. Adair probably noticed something about him, something 'off.' He followed his hunch, after all, that's what reporters do, and he found out too much. He knew Moran would go after him, and took steps to protect himself, or at least to make sure the police got a good image of Moran to go on."

"So you're saying that this kid found out about his involvement in Moriarty's organization..."

"He had to be stopped."

"And you think Moran's in London-"

"Looking for me, yes. I had a feeling I was being tracked the years I was away. Looks like he's finally caught up."

Lestrade looked confused. "Well, I can try and get you into Witness Protection, but-"

Sherlock looked at him like he had lost his mind. "Lestrade, I know you're not really that dim. Moran knows I'm back in London, he's certainly going to make an attempt on my life soon, but _we _know that he is, now. We have the upper hand, the perfect bait. I'm not going anywhere."

"And by 'bait,' you mean yourself, do you? We're supposed to just back off and wait for him to take you out before moving in?"

"Of course not." Sherlock scoffed. "We use a decoy, draw him in with that, and then pounce."

"What kind of decoy?"

"... Let me make a call. Someone owes me a favor."

He stepped outside Lestrade's office for better reception, almost colliding with Sally Donovan. She looked at him an smirked.

"So you're back." she said.

"What an astute observation, Sally." He said sarcastically. "Why, with that sort of profound analysis, you should be promoted within the week."

"Not what I meant, freak. I mean... _you're_ back... so where's Dr Watson?"

Sherlock snorted. "What, I can't go anywhere without him? It's not as if we're some sort of two-for-one deal-"

"Oh. My. _God_. He didn't know you were still alive, did he? And now, what, he's not talking to you?"

Sherlock frowned. It was all the response Sally needed. A delighted smile crept over her features.

"Oi! Anderson!" she called, and a head poked out from behind a nearby cubicle. "Watson's finally got himself a backbone! Pay up!"

"What?-"

"The freak didn't tell him about skipping town! Apparently, John's properly pissed off. So pay up!"

"No!" Anderson whined. "That bet's years old!"

"You were betting on what, exactly?" Sherlock asked distastefully.

As Sally pocketed the money Anderson had reluctantly handed over, she looked up at him. "That somehow, some day, you'd finally find some way to alienate the only person in the world willing to put up with you. Congratulations, freak."

With a pat on his shoulder, Sally walked away. Sherlock watched her go in annoyance before dialing his hacker friend.

"Meredith? Hi. Sherlock. Listen, I need a favour..."

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**I'm sorry about this chapter. I'm crap at all the deduction stuff, and I know pretty much nothing about crime, so I'm pretty sure the whole thing was just a long string of BS. Please forgive me *offers cookies* Anywhoo, I'm putting the next chapter up in about five seconds to make up for it... Like, literally. Five seconds. Look, it's already here! **


	4. Chapter 4

**See, I told you it would be five seconds. Yeah, so this is to make up for that last one. It's a bit shorter, but I had a hell of a lot more fun writing it. Probably because I pretty much love Harry already, even though we haven't met her yet. *fingers crossed for Harry in series two, though!* Her posts on the blog are hilarious. And if you haven't read the blog, which is one of the tie-in websites, go read it and all the other, because they are fabulous.**

**Okay. I'm finished pimping out the tie-ins, go read them... right after you read this! Enjoy!**

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Having enlisted the help of Meredith Wilson - an elderly woman with surprising hacking abilities - to send out a wireless scramble signal to all surrounding surveillance footage within a five mile radius of Baker Street, Sherlock had about an hour of time to kill until he took up his post in the empty building across the street to watch for his would-be killer, since Moran preferred to work under the cover of night.

He busied himself in that time by driving to a fair sized house just outside London. He'd gotten the address from Mycroft. Nice car in the driveway, exterior kept clean and well-maintained. Not what he had expected, from what he'd heard about the house's inhabitant.

He rang the doorbell and she answered. Her fire-engine red dyed hair was a little longer than he'd last seen it, years ago, and now touched her shoulders. She'd removed the numerous piercings in her ears and allowed them to grow in, now with only one in each ear. She was dressed casually, in jeans and a Rolling Stones t-shirt. Tall and curvy, with full lips and a prominent chin, it took a close look to see the resemblance to her younger brother. The shape and colour of the eyes and the inch or so of sandy coloured roots were what gave her away as the older sister of John Watson.

She took one look at Sherlock and gave a short little laugh.

"He said you'd probably turn up here." She said with a smirk.

"He was right." Sherlock said simply.

"He told me not to talk to you."

"But what were the requests of younger siblings made for, other than to be denied?"

She stood aside and let him in.

"Nice to see you again, Harry."

"You too, Sherlock. Although, I've got to say, it's a little surprising." They reached the comfortable, if cluttered living room, and Harry gestured to a large recliner. "Have a seat. You need anything? Tea? Coffee?"

"I'm fine, thanks." Sherlock said graciously.

Harry nodded, and flopped down in a corner of the couch, folding one leg under her as she sat. She studied him carefully, as if sizing him up. After a while, she spoke.

"I'm not exactly sure what I should say to you..." She said slowly. "I guess, in a way, I should be thanking you."

"Thanking me?" Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow. "How so?"

"Well," Harry said with a sigh, "For one thing, you screwed him up so badly he forgot to be mad at me."

She said it bluntly, and to Sherlock, it felt like a blow to the stomach. "He came here, the night he got back from Switzerland. He never showed up unexpectedly like that... not since the night before he left for Afghanistan, that is. He was a proper mess, too. I'd hardly opened the door and he was babbling about second chances and not saying goodbye, and making things right and all. I didn't have a bloody clue what to do. Then he just sort of... broke down, right there on my doorstep. He just kept saying "sorry" over and over... then when he calmed down a bit I managed to get the whole story out of him. I hadn't seen him like that since we were kids.

"Anyways, after that night, we sort of... patched things up, I guess. He went back to your flat to get a few things, then stayed with me for a few weeks after. The first few days were the worst. He was just like a ghost; just... hollow. After that, he tried to get back into... well, life, I guess, instead of just moping around the house. He did well, too. He always has been great at putting a breave face on and moving on with life and all that. He never talked about you, though. Moved out of Baker Street and lived with Sarah for a while."

"What happened? To Sarah?" Sherlock asked, cutting in. Harry looked at him sadly. "She's dead, I'm assuming."

Harry nodded. "A few weeks after their second anniversary. Drunk driver. She's really the reason I quit drinking. John was devestated, of course. And he had every right to be. Everyone he cared for were dropping like flies." She looked accusingly at Sherlock.

He opened his mouth to try and defend himself, but she cut him off. "Do you remember what I said to you, the first time we met?"

Sherlock remembered well. It had been in the hospital, the morning after the explosion at the pool. Sherlock had been sitting at John's bedside, watching him as he slept, waiting for him to wake up. He'd almost fallen asleep himself when Harry burst into the room, looking panicked. She'd rushed to her brother's bedside and grabbed his hand, looking at him with tear-filled eyes.

"He'll be alright." Sherlock had murmered, startling her. She hadn't noticed he was there. "Concussion and a few broken ribs from the blast. Nothing fatal."

She'd sighed with relief and gripped his hand even tighter. She didn't bother to ask Sherlock who he was, she'd read John's blog enough to know.

"I was supposed to be finished spending every day worried he'd get blown up." She whispered in an unsteady voice.

She took a second to collect herself, then stooped over and kissed John on the forhead and ruffled his hair. She straightened, and turned to Sherlock. "It's best if you don't tell him I was here. We don't exactly see eye-to-eye."

Sherlock nodded silently, and Harry turned and walked out of the room. As she reached the threshold, she turned again, and looked directly at Sherlock. "Don't let him get hurt again." She warned, then turned on her heel and walked away...

"Sherlock?" Harry's voice snapped Sherlock out of the memory. "D'you remember what I said?"

"You told me not to let him get hurt again."

"And?"

"... and what?"

"Well, so far you've done a bang up job of it."

"What are you talking about? He hasn't sustained a single injury working with me since then."

Harry heaved a sigh and rolled her eyes, bearing an almost eerie resemblance to her younger brother as she did. "I thought he was exaggerating, but I guess not. You really don't know shit about people, do you Sherlock?"

"What do you-"

"Of _course_ he was hurt, you idiot! I thought you knew John! You know how compassionate he is, how he gets sometimes. You had to know it would destroy him to lose you like that. He never even got closure, or a proper goodbye!"

"But I-"

"Look, Sherlock." Harry said, suddenly dropping her voice and looking at him directly. "I know you love John as much as I do, and you'd never do anything on purpose to cause him pain. And I'm sure you've got some good reason for doing what you did; whatever. It doesn't matter to me."

Sherlock nodded mutely.

"But the thing is... as well intentioned as you were... you might as well have pushed _him _off that waterfall."

Sherlock blinked. "Sorry?"

"When he came back from Afghanistan, he was just a sort of hollow shell. It was like he was a ghost or something. I wouldn't have even recognized him from the sweet kid I grew up with. And then he started living with you, and it was like he came back to life again. I don't try to understand it, but somehow, in your own twisted little way, you saved my brother. And losing you... it damn near killed him."

There was a long silence before Sherlock finally spoke, in a much softer voice than usual. "Well, what... what do I do, then?" He couldn't believe he was asking John's abrasive, formerly-estranged sister for advice.

Harry gave him a crooked grin that looked too much like her brother's. "Not much you can do, mate. John's a softy in a lot of categories, but unfortunately he can hold a grudge for a really long time."

"And there's no way to... speed up the process?"

Harry laughed. "Are you sure you're not a robot or something? You can't just _speed up the process_, especially when he's got a right to be pissed off! The best thing you can do is apologize-"

"I've already tried that." He said petulantly.

"From what I've heard, you've just bombarded him with e-mails and texts and broken into his flat. Not exactly heartfelt."

"Well then, how do you suggest I apologize? In song?" Sherlock snapped.

"Just go up to him, look him in the eyes, and tell him the truth."

"How do I make him listen?"

"Sherlock," again, Harry grew solemn, "Despite how he may feel right now, you're his best friend. If there's anyone he'll listen to, it's you, no matter how badly you've screwed up."

She stood up, and Sherlock took that as a social cue that it was time for him to go. He thanked her for her time, and walked out the door, his mind far away at a waterfall in Switzerland. He hailed a cab and told the driver John's address.

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**And another one done. Things are about to pick up soonish, action-wise. In the mean time, why not leave a review? Also, I'm kind of ticked at ff . net for changing the review button so often. A few chapters earlier, I was like "click the green button" only to realize a few seconds later it's not green anymore! *facepalm* duh!**

**But now I know it's blue for sure. Right now, at least. By the time this thing goes up it'll probably be puce or something. What is puce anyways, I don't think I've ever seen that colour. And now I'm babbling. Point is, leave a review, por favor. Oh yeah. I did just break out the spanish. Oh snap. **

**Sorry. Again, cold medication. I'll shut up now.**


	5. Chapter 5

John kicked the door shut behind him and threw his jacket over a chair near the door. He kicked off his shoes and flopped on the sofa, closing his eyes and heaving a weary sigh.

His day had been hellish. There was no other word for it. Of course the day he got stuck covering an ER shift would be the day the casualties from a 6 car pileup came pouring in. 13 people had been in the accident, only 9 had made it to the hospital.

The injuries had been numerous, and many were critical, but John had seen worse. He'd seen bodies ripped apart by explosions, riddled with bullet holes. Afghanistan had a habit of putting things into perspective when it came to injuries like this. He could take the gore. He really could. It was just the car accident part that bothered him.

Of course, in the moment, he hadn't given it a thought. When he was in work-mode, he was in work-mode, and no personal thoughts could break his concentration. He and his team of ER staff had managed to keep all 9 survivors alive, although it had been an uphill battle all the way.

But as soon as the shift had ended, as soon as the adrenaline rush had worn off, he spared a thought to the ones who hadn't made it. The ones who were DOA. The ones who were like Sarah had been.

He sat up and picked up a framed picture - the only one in the flat - off the end table. The picture was of Sarah, taken on their wedding day. How many times had he done this since the day of the accident? Just picked up this picture and stared at it, trying to crystallize in his memory her smile, her laugh, her warmth. He hadn't wanted to lose that. He hadn't wanted to bury his memories of her in the back of his mind and lose them, like he had with Sherlock...

Sherlock, who had now come back into his life, expecting everything to be fine. Who he'd wasted all that time on mourning, when he could have been focusing on enjoying the precious little time he'd had with Sarah. Who he hated, because he'd come back and Sarah hadn't, couldn't. Who couldn't possibly, ever be forgiven for what he'd done. And yet...

He kept looking at that picture of his wife, and he remembered how forgiving she'd been, almost saintly in her grace. Hell, she had to be forgiving to even consider hanging onto the relationship after that first date. And after that, as it grew more serious between them, she'd hung on when he lost Sherlock and disappeared into a depression for a while. And she'd been there waiting for him with open arms when he got himself together.

_What would you do?_ He asked Sarah. _What would you tell me to do, if you could?_

Before he could think on it further, there was a timid knock on his door. He quickly replaced the picture on the table and went to answer it. Before he got halfway there, though, he heard a voice, _his_ voice, through the door.

"John," Sherlock called through the wood. "I know you're in there. Will you let me in?... _Please?_"

He'd had to fairly spit the last word out, and it was just so typically Sherlock that John almost smiled. Almost. Instead, he merely froze where he was, unable to take another step towards the door.

"John?" A pause, as outside, Sherlock listened for an answer. "Fine. You don't have to say anything. Just listen to what I have to say."

Sherlock paused again, listening intently for any sort of reply. John was inside, he knew that much, and standing close to the door by the sound of the footsteps coming from inside. But now, he'd stopped moving. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, anything at all to keep John from walking away from the door, but for once in his life, he was drawing a blank.

For the first time in three and a half years, for the second time in his life, he found himself speechless.

The first time, he'd been lying, gasping on a ledge high above the crashing waves. His numb fingers had clutched the grass, wrapped around it, tangled in it because he hadn't let go since pulling himself up. Adrenaline was rushing through his system, sharpening every sense. The cold of the air, the smell of damp earth, the lack of feeling in his hands, the sight of the water and the ground below him, shaded by the mist coming off the falls.

And then there was the sound. It was almost deafening, the roar of the falls assaulted his ears. And then, faintly, another noise. A voice, desperately calling his name. He saw a shape through the mist, standing in the very spot where, a few moments earlier, he'd grappled with Moriarty, sent him over the edge. The shape called him again, voice unsteady. The voice called for him until it gave out, over and over, and then it broke. The shape seemed to have spotted something, close to the edge.

As it approached the thing on the gound, Sherlock had thought for one mad second that the shape was going to jump off the precipice. He'd almost shouted back, almost, but then the shape had bent down and picked the object off the muddy ground.

His phone.

The phone with the unsent goodbye message, explaining everything. Well, almost everything. The shape was still for a moment, then it seemed to fold in on itself, until it was kneeling in the mud, still so close to the edge. Sherlock had watched as it trembled, then shook. And just after the shaking, he heard the crying.

God, the crying. The sound ripped through him, almost physically painful to hear. He'd once denied to Moriarty that he even had a heart. Obviously the hypothesis had been incorrect because, if he didn't posess that particular organ, what was it in his chest that seemed to be getting squeezed tighter and tighter with every broken sound that John Watson made?

It only got worse from there. Sherlock could hear him clearly, see his whole body shaking with sobs, so forceful that he was worried his friend might hyperventilate. There was a tight feeling in his throat, and a prickling behind his eyes that he couldn't explain. Every atom of Sherlock's being wanted, needed to call down to him, to tell him that he was alright.

But something had stopped him. Something had kept him there, motionless, as John's heart broke below. Something allowed him to stay there for the hours they searched, investigated. Something kept him there until they all left, and the bullets started flying from Sebastian Moran's gun. Something stopped him all those times in the three intervening years, from picking up a phone or shooting off an e-mail.

But that something hadn't stopped him in that moment up on the ledge, from feeling John's pain. From hurting because he'd hurt John. And that something wasn't going to stop him now from making things right.

The memory still seeming fresh in his mind, as if it had only happened yeaterday, Sherlock spoke.

"John," he began, his voice unsteady even now, the tightness in his throat and chest returning instantaneously. "Please hear me out. I want to- I need to tell you that I'm... sorry. I said it. I'm sorry. I was an ass, and... that's really all there is to say."

He stopped and waited for a reply, which there wasn't, before continuing.

"You have to believe me when I say that I only did it to keep you safe. If I'd told you... If I'd given myself away then and there, his colleagues would have found us. They were extremely loyal to Moriarty, and they would have wanted revenge. Even if we were protected, they would have gone after someone... someone like Mrs Hudson, or Harry, or... or-"

He stopped himself talking before he said Sarah's name.

"Or anyone. But you weren't there when Moriarty died. You didn't kill him, so you weren't in danger. I was the one. I thought I was protecting you. If anyone, _anyone_ knew I was alive, they'd have gone after you to get to me, because they know that... well, you're really the only friend I've ever had, and that... I don't know. They would have used you as leverage."

Nothing.

"I know, I know, I told Mycroft. But that was more out of necessity than affection. He provided me with money and papers, which I needed to get out of the country. I probably _would_ be dead by now if it weren't for him an his aliases. Besides, he's made a career out of secrets. "

He paused. There was still one more thing he needed to say, and it was the hardest of all. He tried to swallow past the lump in his throat before continuing.

"John, you have to believe me when I say... There were dozens of times, dozens, when I almost called, or e-mailed you. I even though about hacking into your damn blog once. But... I couldn't. I don't know why, and I'm not going to give you some half-assed excuse, because... there is no excuse. I was wrong. There, I said it. I, Sherlock Holmes, was wrong.

"But you have to believe that I wanted to tell you. Hell, you were the only person I felt obligated to tell. And that's because you're my friend. And I don't exactly have many, and I've grown accustomed to having one, and I don't want to change my habits now. So... there it is. That's all I've got to say. The, uh, the ball's in your court, I think the phrase is."

Sherlock stepped back from the door and waited for a response. Any response.

Inside the flat, John stood leaning heavily against the wall next to the door, his eyes suddenly damp. It wasn't Sherlock's words that had caused the tears to form, but the memories they brought back. No clear recollections, just the wet, the cold, the crushing greif. The sense of betrayal that Sherlock had sent him away knowing what would happen, without giving him the choice to stay with him or a chance to say goodbye. Yes, what he'd done was unforgivable...

Outside, Sherlock waited for a response. And waited.

And waited.

Nothing.

John had made his choice, then. And for the first time, Sherlock could see how he was justified in that choice. He fully deserved to lose his only friend; after all, he'd been the one to leave in the first place.

As he turned away from the door and walked down the hallway to the stairs, the annoying itch behind his eyes started up again. He blinked against it, wondering why he'd wasted his time with sentimental drivel when there was a criminal to catch. He hailed a cab, and directed it to Baker St. It was time to set up watch for Moran anyways.

* * *

**This was a lot more dramatic in my mind, but what the hell. Anyways, we're drawing closer to the end now. I've got a massive essay due on Romanticism tomorrow that I put off to write this (much more fun) but after that's finished, I'm done for the holidays, so updates should be quick. In the meantime, review! It makes me feel all warm and squishy inside :) **


	6. Chapter 6

**Hello there! My last essay is **_**finito**_** and I am officially free for the holidays! *throws party* And in honour of that, I post the next chapter a few days before I'd planned. I'm not so good with the action scenes, but I hope this suffices. Apologies for the shortness. Enjoy!**

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He got out of the taxi on the opposite side of the street, next to an abandoned deli called _Camden's Fine Foods _ that had apparntly been closed due to health violations in the time he'd been gone. He'd noticed it when he'd returned earlier today.

Picking the lock was easily done, and in a matter of seconds he was inside. There was an upstairs dining area, he remembered, that would prove a better vantage point. He had with him a pair of handcuffs that he'd nicked off a police officer in New York a few years back and a temporary cell with Lestrade's number on speed dial. He was to call them the second he caught sight of Moran.

He found a comfortable spot on the floor where he could look out the window without being seen. Then he watched. And watched. For at least a half hour he sat there, unnaturally still. In such a state of concentration that he should have heard the footsteps coming softly up the stairs. But he didn't.

But then a floorboard directly behind him creaked, and he turned, startled. He didn't see the blow coming, all he knew was that one second he was crouched like a hunter awaiting its prey, and the next that very same prey had suddenly gained the upper hand.

His assailant outweighed Sherlock by at least 100 lbs, all of it muscle. He had him pinned in seconds, although the detective put up a fight. Sherlock tried to get to his phone, to dial Lestrade, but Moran got there first.

"Ah, ah, ah," he said tauntingly, his voice low and threatening. "Don't want you calling for help now do we, Sherlock. No. This is just you and me."

He threw the phone across the room, and Sherlock took advantage of the split second when his concentration was diverted to attempt to maneuver out of the larger man's grip. However, amazingly, Moran seemed to anticipate to move and counter it. A split second later, he was on his stomach with Moran violently twisting his left arm behind him and one knee pressed down on his back with enough pressure that any quick movement on his part threatened to do some considerable damage to his spine.

"Nice try." Moran whispered. "But I know how you fight, Sherlock Holmes. I saw you and Jim that day. I watched the whole fight. You may have been able to take him, but believe me, you're in over your head this time. Killing Jim was a big mistake, mate. You cost me a lot of money, and I'm afraid I'm going to have to kill you. Least I can do in an old friend's memory. But..."

Suddenly, he stopped kneeling on Sherlock's back and stood up. Before Sherlock could do anything to gain the upper hand, though, Moran's boot came crashing into his side. Sherlock groaned and curled in on himself. Moran grabbed hold of Sherlock's coat and hauled him upright, slamming him against the wall, his head hitting it forcefully. Dazed, Sherlock seemed to see two Morans leaning in close and whispering,

"I can play with my food before I eat it, now, can't I?"

He hit Sherlock again, this time the blow sent him into what used to be a bar. He crashed through the glass shelves and then slumped to the ground, shards raining down around him. He was bleeding, that much he could tell, but the back of his head seemed split open and he couldn't see properly.

He heard Moran's boots on the hardwood, though, approaching at a steady pace. Fight or flight kicked in, and Sherlock tensed, sensing that this may be his only chance of gaining the upper hand.

"Get up." Moran ordered. "Stand up and _fight,_ you coward!"

Sherlock slumped more hevily against the wall, and Moran advanced angrily. As soon as he sensed his opponent was close enough, Sherlock struck out with his legs, sending Moran crashing to the ground on top of all the broken glass. Then he crawled dizzily over to him, intending on smashing his head into the floor until he went unconscious, but Moran simply rolled deftly to his feet.

He hauled Sherlock up again and dragged him across the empty room to the staircase, where he gave him a punch that sent the detective tumbling down the three flights. Pain erupted in his shoulder and he cried out. Eventually, he came to a stop on the ground level at the bottom of the stairs.

He willed himself to stand, to be ready when Moran followed him down, but his whole body ached and he was too weak and in pain to even push himself off the ground. He heard Moran approaching and his body tensed, his mind racing to find any plan, any way out.

Nothing.

Moran reached him and grabbed him roughly by his injured shoulder, wrenching him onto his back. Sherlock bit back a whimper. Moran knelt over him, a placid smile on his lips.

"Poor Sherlock." He said in a low, mocking voice. "Not so high and mighty now, eh? But you're in for a treat, mate. I've decided I'm not gonna waste my time shooting you. What would be the fun in that?"

He pulled something out of his front pocket. Something that opened with a _snick_.

A switchblade.

Sherlock struggled against the larger man's grip, but Moran was too strong, and Sherlock's limbs had become strangely unresponsive. Moran grinned.

"Any last words, Sherlock?"

Sherlock remained resolutely silent, glowering at his attacker.

"Poor thing. Comes back from the dead just to be killed the next day. Unless..." Moran leaned in even closer, and whispered in Sherlock's ear, "Beg. I want to hear you beg for your life."

Sherlock kept his mouth firmly shut. Moran grabbed a fistful oh his hair and jerked his head back, exposing his throat and eliciting a painful gasp from the detective. He smiled again, coldly.

"You won't beg? Fine then." He brought the blade up to Sherlock's jugular. Metal touched skin, and Sherlock shivered and closed his eyes. "Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes..."

* * *

**Yes, yes, short, I know. But this seemed as good a place as any to leave it off. Not that it's much of a cliffie. It's fairly obvious that a knight in shining armour - or I guess, a knight in wooly jumpers - is on the way... but will he get there in time? Who knows?**

**Again, lame, awful excuse for a cliffhanger. I'm sorry. But in the mean time, why not leave a review? *tries to bribe with cookies* Go on... you know you want to...**


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